To Catch A Mackerel
by ArkadyRose
Summary: Dr Watson falls prey to a gang of kidnappers, who seek to use him as bait for a trap to capture Holmes. From a prompt on LJ. Contains violence and WatsonWhumping.
1. Capture

It had seemed an evening much like any other. After a late supper, Holmes had settled himself at his desk, busying himself with some chemical experiment the nature of which eluded me but seemed to involve several test tubes of clear, odourless liquids, strips of litmus paper and a fair amount of quiet under-the-breath swearing upon the part of Holmes as it steadfastly failed to yield the results he had expected.

For myself, I was content to amuse myself with one of those yellow-back naval novels of which I was so fond and which Holmes preferred to heap scorn upon; I was all too aware of his low regard for the genre, but he was content to leave me to my novel as I was him to his (now somewhat odoriferous) experimentations.

Neither of us were expecting company; thus it was that we both glanced up in some surprise as the bell rang downstairs, announcing a visitor.

"Who the dickens can that be at this hour?" I wondered, glancing up from my novel.

"I fear it may be some unfortunate soul come to seek your professional capabilities, my dear Watson," remarked Holmes, rising to his feet and wiping his fingers on a piece of stained rag. "Come, bestir yourself from your book - I shall fetch your gladstone."

I did not question how he had deduced this; instead, I did as bade and rose to my feet, reaching for my coat and cane just as Mrs Hudson knocked upon the door. "Dr Watson, there's a messenger here for you sir-" She paused as Holmes reappeared, handing me my bag. Just behind her in the doorway stood an anxious-looking fellow, quite broad in the shoulder with an ill-at-ease countenance.

"Yes, yes, I am ready," I remarked, donning my hat. "Where is the patient?" I asked, addressing the man.

"South of the river, in Lambeth I believe?" remarked Holmes before the man could answer. "The colour of the mud upon your boots is quite distinctive to that area."

The man paused before answering, eyeing Holmes with a peculiar look in his eye. "Yes, I've come from Lambeth," he agreed, before turning to me. "Doctor, we must hurry; I've a carriage waiting downstairs."

"Ah yes, the Tilbury gig just across the street," drawled Holmes. "You should have the mare looked at by a farrier, my good man; her fore left shoe is loose."

The man's expression now was one of open suspicion. "How on earth did you...?" he began.

"The peculiar squeaking of the Tilbury gig is quite unique due to the arrangement of the seven carriage springs; no other two-wheeler makes a sound quite like it - and the sound of the mare's gait indicates clearly that she is favouring her left foreleg but not for reason of lameness and the sound of her footfall on that side has the distinctive muffled ring of a loose shoe. Yours is the only vehicle to pass down Baker Street in the past fifteen minutes therefore it was a matter of simplicity itself to identify it as that which bore you here." He gave one of his brief, tight little smiles.

The man seemed if anything more ill at ease after this explanation, bat used as I am to Holmes' methods I simply smiled. "I shall be quick as I can," I assured him. Holmes gestured with his hand, turning back to his chemicals and test tubes. "Take your time, take your time!" he cried. "Your patient needs your company more than I and my baneful chemicals, Doctor!" The slight smile he gave me as he glanced briefly over his shoulder at me took any sting out of his words; thus reassured, I nodded and then indicated to the man to precede me down the stairs.

The two-wheeler was, indeed, a Tilbury gig as Holmes had deduced, it's paintwork black with blue leather fittings and upholstery. I climbed up onto the broad bench as the man took his seat beside me; barely was I seated before he whipped the mare up into a rapid canter. "Where are we going?" I shouted over the cacophony of the horse's hooves upon the cobbled streets. The driver shook his head and urged the horses on faster. Frowning, I glanced around. We were not heading south, as I would have expected, but rather east.

"I thought the patient was in Lambeth?" I shouted, trying again to elicit some response from the driver.

"We're not going to Lambeth," he replied tersely.

"But then where-"

I got no further as he suddenly pulled hard on the reins, causing the horse to swerve and dart down a dark alley where a carriage stood under the light of a gas lamp. I stared at the carriage as we halted, then at the driver. "What's going on? What is this?" I demanded as three fellows leapt out of the carriage and approached us. I grasped my cane and turned to face them.

And then I felt a sudden, sickening blow to the back of my head. The world tilted crazily and I felt myself falling, losing my grip upon my cane. I fell from the gig and landed hard upon the ground, the breath knocked from my body, leaving me dazed and gasping. Yet though I was dizzy and disorientated from the blow, I struggled back to my feet, determined not to let them take me without a fight, and as the first man grappled at my arm I managed to land a solid right hook to his jaw.

Yet even as he reeled away from my blow, the other two men were upon me and though I struggled mightily, they rapidly had the upper hand as the driver of the gig grasped my arms from behind. Still reeling from the blow to my head, I was no match for three at once,and then one of the men punched me squarely in the stomach and I doubled over in pain. Indeed, I would have fallen but for the grip of my captor. I was in no shape to fight back as they began to drag me over to the carriage; and yet I still attempted to struggle weakly until they rained blows down upon my head.

I was barely half-conscious when they finally hoisted me up and threw me onto the floor of the carriage. I could feel my left eye swelling shut and could taste blood in my mouth. My ribs ached where they had struck and kicked me repeatedly. I was in no fit state to resist further as I was rolled over onto my stomach and my wrists tied behind my back with my own belt. I must have made some small noise of protest however, for one of the ruffians stuffed my handkerchief in my mouth, tying it in place with my own tie so tightly that I almost gagged upon it, the fabric straining at the edges of my mouth most painfully.

I was almost oblivious when the carriage lurched into motion, my senses swimming as I desperately fought to hold onto consciousness. I was vaguely aware I was being discussed by my captors as I lay there, my cheek pressed against the hard floor of the carriage. I felt beyond caring until a mention of Holmes shocked me into sudden awareness.

"He's not daft, that one," the man above me to my left was remarking. "Did you hear what Jimmy said? He knew he'd come from Lambeth."

"Then he'll have a wild goose chase, won't he?" replied the man immediately behind me and to my right. The others laughed. "Aye, that he will," replied the third man. "Gives us plenty of time to have fun with his precious doctor."

He kicked me sharply between the shoulder-blades, and I could not suppress my cry of pain, muffled though it was by the gag.

"He's still awake, then," remarked the first man. "Tough man, eh?" He leaned over me, leering. "Don't you worry your pretty little head, Doctor," he smiled. "It's not you we're after. You're just the sprat to catch the mackerel, in a manner of speaking." He sat back.

"Doesn't mean we can't have our own fun with him whilst we wait though," replied the third man.

"Oh, indeed," agreed the first man, staring down at me. "And fun is what we shall have, lads. Though I doubt Dr Watson here will enjoy it much."

Their laughter was cruel and mocking, and I closed my eyes. I was merely to be bait.

A moment later, they began beating me once more, and this time I embraced the darkness. 

Consciousness returned only slowly. I gradually became aware that I was slumped in an upright position with my hands bound painfully tight behind my back; rough sisal ropes now replaced my leather belt. More ropes around my chest and upper arms bound me to a wooden post of some sort; at some point my shirt had been stripped from me as I lay unconscious, and the ropes bit into my bare skin unmercilessly. My legs stretched out upon the flagstone floor in front of me; I noted that I was barefoot but was clad in my trousers still.

I was grateful to find the gag had been removed from my mouth at some point; the nauseating coppery taste of blood still tainted my mouth however, and I could not open my left eye. This was somewhat irrelevant however, for I was blindfolded.

I did not lift my head, instead listening carefully for any clue as to whether I was alone.I hazarded a guess from the dampness of the air that I was below ground in a cellar of some sort; beyond that, I had no further idea where it was I had been brought. I could not hear any sounds of breathing other than my own; the beating of my own heart seemed abnormally loud in my ears. I realised I was panting, my chest heaving against the constraining ropes, my heart racing in fear. What did they want with me? They had spoken of having "fun" whilst waiting for Holmes to rise to the bait and come in search of me. I had no idea what their intentions were, but was certain they did not bode well for me.

"Well, well, well. Awake are we?"

I jerked my head upright at the sound of the voice unexpectedly close by. "Who's there?" I cried.

"Now, now, Doctor. You surely don't think I'm going to give myself away to you? You are, after all, only the bait for my trap." The voice chuckled dryly; a harsh, rasping sound. A hand cupped my cheek and I flinched away from the touch.

"What do you want with me?" I growled, wrestling futilely with the ropes that bound me. My captor laughed.

"Save your strength, Doctor Watson. You'll need it," he promised. I shivered in spite of myself as his breath ghosted over my bare skin, just inches from my ear. Then I felt a dry, rough hand cup my chin, forcing my head back,and the ice-cold edge of a blade was placed against my throat. I went very still.

"That's it. Stay still, there's a good boy," murmured the voice in my ear; and then I felt another pair of hands forcing my knees apart before starting to undo the fastening of my trousers. I could not restrain a gasp and tried to flinch away from the hands at my groin, but the knife at my throat pressed sharply against my flesh and then bit into it as my captor sliced it a little to the side. I stilled myself with an effort of will as pain flared across my skin; I could feel a trickle of blood, hot and wet, slip slowly down my exposed throat. I was unable to stifle a faint whimper as the unseen hands finished unbuttoning my trousers and then began to slide them down over my hips.

"Please... don't!" I begged from between gritted teeth.

"No?" asked the voice, breath hot and damp against my ear, the knife drawing on a little further. I swallowed convulsively, wincing at the pain. "I don't think you are in any position to demand anything, my dear Doctor. Are you?" The knife was lifted away from my throat and I drew a shaky breath.

"Please-"

I got no further as abruptly I was backhanded hard across the mouth from right to left. My head snapped back under the force of the blow, striking the wooden post behind me. I gasped, head reeling from the blow, and spat blood.

"Again."

Another blow, this time from left to right. I groaned dizzily, but before I could protest the blow was followed up with a kick to my stomach. Unable to double over due to the ropes, I gagged and then retched. I let my head sag down as I gasped for breath.

"Once more."

"No, please, don't-" I broke off with a scream as the next kick connected squarely with the knot of scar tissue in my thigh. Agony sheared through me in nauseous waves and my body kicked and spasmed in response. My scream died down into sobs as my leg throbbed with pain like white-hot fire. I was distantly aware of my captor ordering my unseen tormentor to gag me as he turned away from me. I did not resist as the leather gag was forced between my teeth; I lacked the strength.

Then I was alone with only the pain for company.

_Oh God. Where are you, Holmes?_


	2. Captivity

I had no concept of the passing of time. Eventually the white-hot agony of my leg dulled down to a throbbing ache that flared up anew at any incautious move and rendered sleep all but impossible. I slumped in my bonds, trying to move as little as possible, for even breathing was painful. From the grating feeling and the sharp stabbing pain whenever I unwittingly drew a deep breath, I was fairly certain at least two of my ribs were broken, possibly more.

The cut upon my throat had scabbed over, and the drying blood upon my skin itched uncomfortably. The sweat had long since cooled and in the cold damp air I shivered. I could not even draw up my trousers to protect my modesty; they had been left about my knees, and the flagstones were numbingly cold beneath my buttocks and against my thighs. I was racked with thirst and hunger; supper seemed such a very long time ago, and my mouth was parched and dry, forced open as it was by the leather gag.

I tried to occupy my mind in imagining how Holmes would react when I did not return. How long would it be before he grew suspicious? Would he raise the alarm, or would he seek me out himself? Perhaps my captors had sent him some note or demand for ransom. Or perhaps, even now, he was out upon the streets, bending his formidable powers of observation and deduction to following whatever scanty trail had been left by my abductors. Had he perhaps found my cane, abandoned where they had overpowered me? What had become of my gladstone bag, I wondered.

Such musings could only occupy my mind for so long however, and presently the cramping pain in my leg brought me back to full cognizance of my current plight once more. Lak of movement had caused my muscles to seize up painfully, and yet I was fearful of attempting to alleviate the cramp lest further movement elicit more pain from my leg.

Then I heard the door to my prison open, and in an instant I tensed in spite of the pain, the breath catching in my throat as my heart began to race.

"Well, Dr Watson, how are you enjoying our hospitality?" asked the rasping voice of my captor. I lfted my head slowly, turning my head blindly towards the sound of his voice. I tried to imagine what he must look like; the voice was not that of a young man, and the hands which had touched me were rough, workman's hands - and yet the voice was a cultured one. A gentleman fallen on hard times and driven to desperate measures, perhaps.

The work-worn hand cupped my chin, lifting my head up and tilting it back. I bit upon the gag as the movement caused the cut upon my throat to reopen, the pain stinging and hot. A finger traced along it; I swallowed convulsively. I attempted to pull back but sharp nails dug into my face, the hand upon my chin holding me still in a taloned grip. "Now, now," the voice chastised. "Keep still or it will hurt more."

I froze.

The grip relaxed a little, then the hand brushed down my throat until it encircled my throat, forcing me back hard against the wooden post. A foot kicked my legs apart; I flinched as the blow to my injured leg caused an answering flare of pain from my thigh. I was aware of my tormentor crouching before me, between my legs; I could feel his breath upon my face.

A finger traced idly over my skin, trawling its way slowly from the cut down my throat then across to my left shoulder and the star-shaped scar there from the bullet I had taken in Afghanistan. It circled the pale tissue slowly.

"An old wound, this; long healed, and yet it troubles you in cold weather, I imagine." The finger disappeared, to be replaced by something sharp and cold, like perhaps the tip of a knife. I shivered; shaking my head, I tried to plead, but all that came forth was a strangled sound of whimpering, muffled by the gag - giving way to a scream as the blade was pushed with agonising slowness through my shoulder. I bucked and thrashed wildly against the ropes, not heeding the pain it caused my leg, for the pain in my shoulder was so intense it obliterated all other feeling. The blade halted when it struck bone; my scream of agony tailed off into ragged sobs, all but stifled by the thick leather wedged tightly between my teeth. I panted, my heart racing as my body quivered and jerked, all sensation focused on that point of blazing fire in my shoulder.

The fingers about my throat tightened slowly. "Now, now; be quiet," the voice warned as I gasped for air. I was choking, struggling to draw breath, hindered by the leather gag as much as by the fingers that constricted my airway. I blinked away sweat behind the blindfold and fought to control myself. This man surely did not intend to kill me; I would be dead already if that were the case. I simply had to endure whatever torture he intended for me until Holmes came for me.

And Holmes would come. I had to believe that. To do otherwise would be to invite despair.

The knife twisted in my shoulder; I bit back another scream as blood splashed, wet and hot down my arm. The hand about my throat loosened slightly. "Good boy." Another twist; my body spasmed and jerked again, and I bit hard upon the gag, my breathing rapid and shallow as I panted. "Once more." And then with a sickening crunch, the knife was driven through my shoulder.

I fainted.

I drifted in and out of consciousness; waking brought only pain, and it was a blessed relief when I was rapidly overtaken by unconsciousness shortly after. I was only vaguely aware of being moved; a hazy recollection of being cut free, the leather gag replaced with a softer one of cloth, my wrists bound before me with stout cord. Gentler hands tending the wound in my shoulder. Periods of darkness in which I knew nothing. A brief awakening; tied into an invalid chair, blankets about me, no gag or blindfold this time as I was pushed through dark cobbled streets, the jolting movement causing me to cry out in pain until, fearful of discovery, my abductors chloroformed me.

A carriage. I remember a carriage. I do not know where they were taking me.

Waking, bound to a bed. I do not know why they bothered tying me up; I was weak, almost delirious; a child could have overcome me. I would have laughed, except I had no voice left; I had screamed it all away in a dark cellar. Still, when they saw I was awake they drugged me again. It was a relief to slip back into dreamless sleep.

Shouting. Rough hands upon me - _no, oh God no, please, not him again _- dragging me away; blindfolded again, I was thrust down a set of stairs. Unable to catch myself, I could only cry out as I fell, each step I struck causing every wound to scream out anew. Moaning in anguish, I writhed in paroxysms of agony even as my tormentor grasped my left wrist and, unheeding of the further damage and pain he was inflicting upon me, I was dragged across cold stones and thrown against a brick wall. I lay there, unable to move, as he snarled and vented his fury upon me. The plan, it seemed,had gone awry; the trap sprung empty. I closed my eyes behind the blindfold and gritted my teeth as he began to beat me with his leather belt, all the while swearing furiously. I would not give him the satisfaction of hearing me cry out again.

Then his fingers were in my hair and he yanked my head back painfully as he set his knife to my throat.

"They have uncovered our whereabouts, my pretty boy, but I'll leave them a gift to remember me by!" he whispered to me.

"You'll hang for this," I managed to croak out hoarsely. He laughed at that.

"I'll hang anyway; may as well be for a sheep as a lamb!"

There was a sudden short, loud crack, and he jerked. Suddenly his body fell across me, crushing out my breath, and I gasped then cried out hoarsely at the sudden jabbing pain in my ribs. I couldn't breathe.

Then the crushing weight was lifted from me, and gentle hands were turning me over. A dear, familiar voice was murmuring to me, "Oh my dear God, Watson, what have they done to you? John, can you speak, can you hear me?"

The blindfold was pulled away from my eyes and I blinked slowly, staring up into the eyes of Holmes. I smiled weakly.

"I knew you'd come for me," I whispered.


	3. Comforted

Holmes stared down at me, his eyes full of tender concern and a fierce anger as he took in the extent of my injuries. He cradled me gently in his arms; I was too weak to lift even a hand.

"I killed him too quickly," he growled. "I should have made his death slow and painful for the torments he inflicted upon you."

I shook my head. "Then you would have been no better than he," I murmured.

"Oh John, John," he whispered, rocking me gently; even that small movement was too much however and I could not bite back my cry of pain. He stilled instantly, mortified to have caused me pain.

"Forgive me, John!" he begged me. "Where are you hurt? What have they done to you?" Tenderly he ran his fingertips over my bruised ribs, counting the fractures, tallying each and every cut and mark as though memorising them all. He stroked my face lightly, fingertips delicately brushing over my swollen eye then the fingers ghosted over the cuts upon my throat before coming to hover over my wounded shoulder. My fall down the stairs and further ill-treatment at the hands of my now-dead tormentor had reopened the wound, and the torn and dirty bandages were soaking through with blood. I could feel myself growing weaker as I lay in Holmes' arms; exhausted, I closed my eyes.

"John?"

I opened my eyes again. "I'm tired, Holmes," I managed to whisper. "So very tired."

"You have to stay with me, John."

I think I laughed then; or maybe it was only a breathless wheeze. Of course I would stay with him; I was in no fit state to go anywhere, after all, and it was so comforting to simply lie here in his arms. I murmured something to this effect, or maybe I only dreamed I did; for he gently squeezed my good shoulder and begged me to look at him.

I opened my eyes again slowly; it was harder to focus upon his face, and I felt so very tired. I tried to smile, to reassure him but even that seemed to require more strength than I possessed.

As I felt myself slipping away, I was dimly aware of Holmes shouting out for help, calling for a doctor. My last, confused thought was to wonder why he should call for a doctor when one lay in his arms...

When next I came back to myself, I lay in a soft bed. I opened my eyes slowly and found that my left eye was covered with a soft dressing. The ceiling above me was familiar and comforting. I rolled my head to my right upon the soft pillow, and observed that I was in my own bed. I traced my fingers over the dressing and bandages on my wounded shoulder; they were clean and fresh.

I ached all over, but it was the ache of a body starting to heal. The bed was warm and the pain in my shoulder and my leg was only a dull throb. It no longer hurt to breathe, thankfully. I closed my eyes again, and I was on the verge of drifting off to sleep when I heard cautious footsteps entering my room. I opened my eyes and smiled at Holmes.

"You have no idea how glad I am to see you," I said huskily, my throat still a little raw. Holmes paused in the doorway, his eyes drinking in the sight of me. His face was careworn; his eyes bespoke hours without sleep, the dark shadows beneath like bruises against his pale skin. Yet as he regarded me, his face broke into a broad smile and he strode swiftly to my side, taking my hand in both of his and squeezing it gently.

"I dare say your happiness only matches mine, my dear fellow," he smiled. "For a while there I feared we had lost you. You were far gone by the time we traced the ruffians to their lair. Had we been but a few minutes later...!"

I squeezed his hand reassuringly. "You arrived in the nick of time. Thank God you remembered your pistol!"

He laughed. "I didn't though – it was Clarky's gun I fired!"

"Oh Holmes, how very typical of you," I groaned.

Holmes' face fell into a look of serious concern as he lifted my hand to his lips. "John, I am so very, very sorry this happened to you. They hurt you terribly, and all because of me."

"I know," I nodded. "They told me. I was the bait to lure you in – a sprat to catch a mackerel, they called me."

Holmes sank down onto the edge of the bed, still holding my hand in his. "I was not swift enough in following you. Had I not wasted time by calling in Lestrade -"

"-Then they likely would have caught you and we would both be dead," I finished for him. "I knew you would come for me. I just had to endure until then. And it was not so bad-"

"Not so bad?" exclaimed Holmes. "Watson, they broke three of your ribs, beat you within an inch of your life, threw you down stairs, cut your throat and stabbed you through your shoulder! Watson, they _tortured_ you – and all in my name!"

"It was nothing I did not experience far worse in Afghanistan, Holmes," I replied. "I have always known that by associating with you, I risked becoming a target of those whose paths you crossed. It is a risk I am willing to take, because my friendship with you is worth it. Because _you_ are worth it, Holmes."

Holmes stared at me with stricken eyes that glistened wetly. "John, I do not deserve you," he murmured, bowing his head over my hand. I could feel something wet and hot upon my fingers as he cradled them. I struggled to sit upright.

"Holmes! Holmes, are you... _crying?_" I asked incredulously. He looked up at me then, and indeed his face was wet and streak with tears.

"It is nothing," he lied, attempting to smile. "Something in my eye, perhaps." He scrubbed at his face with the cuff of his shirtsleeve. "You should lie down, Watson; you still need much rest."

Obediently, I lay back against the pillows, raising an eyebrow at him. He glared at me as if to dare me to say anything further; I merely smiled and shook my head at him. Affronted, he turned and stalked from the room.

Instantly contrite, I sat up again. "Holmes!" I cried, throwing the eiderdown to one side as I set my feet to the floor. Gritting my teeth against the flare of pain in my leg, I forced myself to stand and managed to stagger the short space to my writing bureau, leaning upon it heavily as I panted with the exertion.

Holmes reappeared bearing his violin and bow; he regarded me with horrified surprise and hastily laid the instrument upon the end of my bed then moved to catch me as I swayed then fell. "Watson, you foolish creature, what were you trying to do?" he sold me as he gently lifted me back into the bed, fluffing up the pillows behind my shoulders and pulling the eiderdown straight.

"I upset you; I shouldn't have teased you like that," I said through gritted teeth as my leg and shoulder screamed in awakened pain.

He shook his head. "No, I was only angry at myself," he replied. "A thousand, thousand apologies, Watson, that you should ever have been caught up in this business and hurt like this. You could have died, and I could never have forgiven myself."

I stared into those intense eyes, darkened by distress and emotion which he so rarely allowed himself to display, and could feel only a deep and abiding loyalty and love for him. "There is nothing to forgive, dear friend," I said softly. I reached out with my good arm and gestured for him to come near; he took my hand and allowed me to draw him closer. "I do not regret a single moment of our association together," I told him firmly. "Do you regret our friendship?"

"Never!" he cried. I smiled.

"Then let us put aside this talk of blame and forgiveness," I told him. He lowered his head for a moment in thought then slowly nodded in assent. I released his hand, and he lifted the violin.

"Would you like me to play you something soothing?" he asked quietly.

I lay back against the pillows with a smile. "I would love that," I replied simply, and closed my eyes as the soft, lilting strains of a Mozart symphony began to fill the air, coaxed from the Stradivarius with loving hands.

Slowly I drifted off to sleep, knowing I was finally safe.

_FIN_


End file.
